I spoke at a columnists’ conference, where legitimate reporters—people other than myself—debated headlines, politics, civil rights. I butted in only when I had something important to add, like, “How come the Incredible Hulk’s shirt came off, but never his pants?”

I was nursing a journalism headache at the airport when, between the cab and the curb, I lost my wallet (estimated distance: five steps). I frisked myself confidently at first, then with that dizziness you get when your car is stolen. You consider every explanation, including parallel dimensions, before thinking, “They’ll be back... they’ll be back.”

It’s strange to be without identification. You feel like a fugitive condemned to wander the streets until authorities arrive in their hovermobiles to scan your eyeballs and whisk you away to someplace unsavory. I actually considered lifting a Buffalo wing from the snack cart. The only thing that stopped me was the spectre of Jean Valjean from “Les Miserables”: “What have I done? Become a thief in the night, a dog on the run...”

I called Yahaira, my consummate lifeline, who assured me—once she finished laughing—that everything would be okay. Via cell phone, she coached me over to the courtesy booth, where we tracked down the cab company by my helpful description of its car: “Um, I think it had some blue.”

Yahaira cancelled my Visa, American Express and library card (we can’t have someone reading under my name), and with that I roamed the halls of the airport looking for a dry spot to sleep, like the Ghost of Terminal 4. So it goes.

A married couple gave me $15 for food. I shook their hands twice and asked if I could write them a poem or something. The woman petted my head even though I smelled like low tide.

At that exact planetary moment, I got a call from Mario, my ex-father-in-law, who lived in town and was coming on his shiny white steed (Ford Bronco): “Yahaira says you need a place to stay.” Mario treated me to dinner at Chili’s, where we ate, as the universe would have it, Buffalo wings.

The next morning, Mario fixed me a breakfast hoagie, expressing his love in pickles (approximately 32). My other ex-in-laws showed up with hugs and money, and boy did I feel like a jackhole for not visiting. And, just as Mario returned me—freshly bathed, no less—to Terminal 4, I received a call from the sorta-blue cab company: “We found your wallet. The driver is on his way.”

The driver apologized long enough to get the Oscar® “wrap-it-up” music. The wallet had slipped beneath his seat, and so on. I tipped him 40 bucks and ran to the check-in girl, who waived my cancellation fee and sat me on the next plane out.

Have you ever been treated so well that you could almost believe in Santa Claus? It’s like the whole thing was orchestrated by some cosmic force that just wanted me to eat pickles with old family. As my guru Ferris Bueller once said, “Life goes by pretty fast.” If you don’t stop and lose your wallet once in a while, you could miss it.